


Lindálë

by Alyss_Baskerville



Series: Speculations of the House of Finwë [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cuiviénen, Darkening of Valinor, Female Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Non-Canon Relationship, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, Other, Post-Darkening of Valinor, Sailing To Valinor, The Ainur - Freeform, Valinor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 05:01:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19288672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyss_Baskerville/pseuds/Alyss_Baskerville
Summary: The House of Finwë reflects upon a woman who was like kin to them. She was not kin, however.





	Lindálë

**Author's Note:**

> Fëanáro - Fëanor's mother name (Q)  
> Nelyafinwë - Maedhros' father name (Q)  
> Kanafinwë - Maglor's mother name (Q)  
> Turcafinwë - Celegorm's father name (Q)  
> Morifinwë - Caranthir's father name (Q)  
> Curufinwë - Fëanor's father name | Curufin's father name (Q)  
> Pityafinwë = Pityo - Amrod's mother name (Q)  
> Telufinwë = Telvo - Amras' father name (Q)  
> Nolofinwë - Fingolfin's father name  
> Arafinwë - Finarfin's father name (Q)  
> Morikotto = Morgoth  
> ___
> 
> Lindálë is the OFC I created to serve as the topical character of this series.

She was the first Ainu that he, or any of his people, had ever encountered.

When Finwë first laid eyes on her she had been everything he did not understand. She _looked_ well enough like one of the Eldar, albeit one of unnatural perfection; a face of beauty too great to be described in words, eyes so pale and clear and luminous a blue that they shone nearly silver, like the light of Telperion (in fact, he was almost inclined to believe Telperion was inspired by _her_ eyes), eyes framed with long ebony lashes, smooth white skin, full, pale pink lips, a slender and rather short form, long raven hair that fell to her waist in inky waves. Slightly tapered ears that should have _told_ him that she was no different from those of his kind, yet it had not been so.

Perhaps it was the hum around her. A mystical, fantastical, ethereal hum that permeated the very air around her. Her aura sang with power and beauty, knowledge and cunning, on a level that seemed to transcend the physical plane. It was such that he had never before felt upon the dark shores of Cuiviénen, surrounded by his people. Celestial. Angelic. _Otherworldly_.

But she had been friendly enough, all smiles and laughs and witty jests, and the reverence he’d felt had faded rather quickly, for she was just so _lively_ and despite her odd ambience, it was easy to forget that she was vastly different from him. She had gotten along well with Míriel, his beloved Míriel, as well, so much so that his wife was soon calling Lindálë her dearest friend, and the Maia returning the title with equal affection. And soon, Lindálë was like a sister to him, one whom he was just as comfortable as he was with his own kin.

Then when Míriel passed Lindálë had remained by his side, steadfast, and they had shared in their grief. And so vanished had any of Finwë’s doubts that the Ainur were any more heavenly or celestial or infallible than one of the Eldar. For he and Lindálë had been as one in their sorrow for Míriel, one in their despair for the son that Míriel had left behind in her wake.

Lindálë tried all she could to soothe the lack of a mother in Curufinwë, she truly had. And she had done the best job she could have. For Curufinwë received no lack of attention from a tender, protective, and loving woman in Lindálë. She was as an older sister to his son, the same way she was as a sister to Finwë. Stern, when need be. She was not afraid to chastise the child. Gentle, when the situation called. She never hesitated to stroke Curufinwë’s thick black locks, to smile at him and praise him. And Finwë thanked the everlasting liveliness that he had always noticed in her, the everlasting liveliness with which she handled his son, that Curufinwë’s will became so steely, and his knowledge of fear so scarce.

When Finwë remarried, she begrudged him not for it, although the faraway expression in her bright eyes was that which he had never before seen in her gaze.

Her support of his marriage to Indis, even her friendliness with his second wife and their children, ripped a hole in her relationship with Curufinwë. It never seemed to truly mend, at least not to Finwë’s eyes. But she continued as an older sister to Curufinwë, and he resisted it not. As she was later an older sister to his seven sons.

With Nelyafinwë she indulged his sharp, boundless curiosity and was patient and entertaining for the sake of amusing the child when answering his questions. The Ainu quickly became young Nelyafinwë’s favorite tutor, odd as it sounded. At times he would be obstinate in his determination that he would not take lessons from anyone but her. Curufinwë himself had to intervene, then. But Lindálë and Nelyafinwë remained close, like older sister and younger brother, even into Nelyafinwë’s adult years.

With Kanafinwë she spent not much time with when he was a child. But when Curufinwë’s second son grew into adolescence she had sat with him for hours and mentored him in the improving of his vocals. Lindálë loved to sing and loved music, and the young Kanafinwë was thrilled for the company of someone who shared his passions and could equal and surpass his skill. He was struck with awe and delight in hearing the supernatural music of one of the Ainur, the beings who had sung this world into existence. For a time during Kanafinwë’s years as a youth, Finwë had been quite sure that his second-eldest grandson was half in love with Lindálë. That passion, like any infatuation of adolescence, burned out eventually. Lindálë had never encouraged Kanafinwë’s feelings, and once they had passed, she and he settled comfortably back into the roles of older sister, younger brother. And so they remained even after Kanafinwë had fully matured.

To Turkafinwë, Lindálë taught her wild freeness of spirit. Oddly enough her relationship with Turkafinwë reminded Finwë the most of her relationship with Curufinwë. Finwë was sure that it was under her influence that his son’s third son grew so independent and individualistic. For Turkafinwë was the child who defied Curufinwë most, and feared the least his famed wrath. Their relationship remained steadfast through its long years: older sister, younger brother. Turkafinwë said it was one of the most significant constants in his life.

With Morifinwë, Lindálë counseled acceptance. Others did not always think as he did, she told him, and he must learn to accept that. Respect it. But it did not mean he must agree with it, she specified. And ever she  reminded Morifinwë to _think_ . No matter what his opinion was, he must think, and support that opinion with reasons. Even if he agreed, she told him, it was still worth it to examine the reasons behind his agreement. Accept _everything_ that _anyone_ told him, Lindálë reminded Fëanáro’s fourth son, and he would one day find that his ability to think had vanished. He must understand why his judgment had swayed him to an opinion.

With Curufinwë, whom Fëanáro had named after himself, Lindálë counseled perseverance. The fifth son was the child that took the most after Fëanáro, and yet it seemed that try as he might, Curufinwë could not reach the mastery and genius of the art of smithing, the same mastery and genius that seemed to be at Fëanáro’s beck and call since he was but an adolescent. Fëanáro was a _prodigy_ , brilliant and glowing and unmatched, but Curufinwë was merely _talented,_ and that had, for so long, been a source of shame, frustration, and anger for Finwë’s fifth grandson. And Finwë was sure that were it not for Lindálë, Curufinwë would not have become so skilled at smithing as he became as he grew. It was she who encouraged him, she who assured him that persistence was just as important as innate ability. That he was astounding in his own right, no matter if he never reached Fëanáro’s acumen. And Curufinwë had heeded the words of the Maia that was akin to an older sister to him. He had practiced long and hard and excruciating hours and had achieved the height of his potential.

For Pityafinwë, Lindálë taught almost _cold_ calculation. How to take in one’s problems, weigh them on their consequences, their possibilities. To look at potential solutions and dissect them in much the same way. And then to decide which decision to make based on those calculations. Out of all the brothers, Pityafinwë was likely the one who caused the least trouble for his parents and those around him. Always was the sixth son of Fëanáro eager to think before he acted, to puzzle through a difficult situation through meticulous logical processes rather than making snap judgments like the rest of his family.

To Telufinwë, Lindálë taught the importance of restraint. Of the twins, Telufinwë had always shone brighter, burning with the same fire and the same charisma as Fëanáro, bequeathed unto his youngest son. The younger twin was born with all of his father’s gifts. Pityafinwë was quieter, his nature tamer, not quite as extraordinary, not quite as magnetic. But Lindálë taught Telufinwë to value his brother’s influence, and to cultivate restraint in himself, as well. She told him that one such as Fëanáro, and one such as Telufinwë, would be hard-pressed to survive without a tempering hand, a soothing balm. It was Nerdanel, Finwë’s good-daughter, who had filled that spot for Fëanáro, but Telufinwë had need of such a balm. And Pityafinwë was that, Lindálë said. A constant, steady and stabilizing, to stay Telufinwë’s hand, to show him that reason and level-headedness and common sense were just as important as Fëanáro’s blinding, scalding light. It was probably because of Lindálë that sense stayed Telufinwë’s hand more so than it stayed Fëanáro’s.

Hers was an odd relationship with his family. She was like a sister to Finwë, but also like a sister to Fëanáro, and in time she became like a sister to Nerdanel, and also like a sister to Fëanáro’s seven sons. According to his daughter-in-law, when Lindálë visited Fëanáro’s dwelling, the word _nésa_ was like an echo, all nine of them - Fëanáro, Nerdanel, and their sons - referring to Lindálë as such. But despite the peculiarity, Finwë would be untruthful if he said he did not feel blessed. Whatever Lindálë’s official place in their family was - and perhaps she had none - she felt as much kin to all of them as any other member.

But then Morikotto came. And he ruined everything. Never had Finwë seen - nor imagined that it was possible for - a family fall apart so quickly. Fëanáro grew obsessed with the Silmarils, those beautiful but meaningless gems, and less and less did he look at the family, his seven sons and his One, his wife, who were right there in front of him. His friction with Nolofinwë and Arafinwë was amplified until he could scarcely be in the same room as his brothers without glowering at them. And the resentment toward Finwë himself for wedding Indis, the resentment that had always underlined Finwë’s interactions with his eldest son had boiled over. No longer did Fëanáro even attempt to disguise his disgust for Finwë’s remarriage, his bitterness toward Finwë for taking another wife.

Finwë could not stop his son from changing. Nerdanel could not stop her husband from changing. Fëanáro’s seven sons could not stop him from changing. And Lindálë could not stop him from changing, either, try as she might. Finwë recalled their first truly _threatening_ argument as clearly as if it had occurred yestereve, although it had been more than five thousand years since his death. He had never felt so . . . shocked, he recalled, and he knew his grandsons had been horrified as well, for the argument had been truly volatile.

_"You obsess over those accursed gems, Fëanáro. Why is it that you are so enamored with them?”_

_Hostility rose on Fëanáro’s face. The Silmarils - they were an almost taboo topic in the house as of late, Fëanáro’s brow darkening thunderously if any, including his sons, so much as mentioned them._ _Lind_ _á_ _lë, for all her familiarity and closeness with_ _Fëanáro, was not exempt._

 _"Why is it that you ask me such a question?_ **_You_ ** _would not know,_ _Lind_ _á_ _lë. Have ever you created something so beautiful with your own two hands, without song and utterly without assistance? I have spent years upon years creating the Silmarils, and I have finally succeeded. What is so wrong with appraising what I have put so much effort into?”_

 _“You spend day and night locked in your chambers, staring at the Silmarils and scarcely stepping outside to speak to your wife, nor even one of your seven sons when they come to visit you. Pityo and Telvo scarcely even_ **_know_ ** _you._ _Fëanáro, you act as if Indis, Nolofinwë, Arafinwë, and even Finwë wrong you so,_ **_so_ ** _unjustly, but then you turn around and wrong the ones that you truly ought to care for most in the very same way. Your sons have accompanied you all the way to Formenos, abandoning their homes, their lives, because_ **_you_ ** _could not bear to keep your temper in check. And the thanks you give them is to ignore them utterly, to speak not one single word of acknowledgment for their sacrifice. Always are you treating your sons like they should be a set of perfect marble sculptures in your image. It is beginning to look like you care nothing for them except as puppets to carry on your will and your name.”_ _Lind_ _á_ _lë’s voice was exasperated, cold._

 _Fëanáro’s fëa had flared hotly then, making his present sons flinch at its searing potency. “_ _Lind_ _á_ _lë, I will not permit anyone, even you, to treat me patronizingly, like I am some wayward child. In fact it is_ **_you_ ** _who are in the wrong. You have no children, and you could not possibly understand what I feel for each and every one of my sons. They are my pride, my world, and I would not trade them for any - ”_

 _“And yet never do I see you acting upon that love!”_ _Lind_ _á_ _lë snapped, her_ _ëala, the soul of a Holy One, rising subtly to match Fëanáro’s fëa. The increase of intensity had not been as abrupt, as steep, as had that of Fëanáro’s fëa, for_ _Lind_ _ál_ _ë had a longer temper than him._ _Yet the clash of their spirits had been a sight to behold nevertheless, Kanafinwë, who, unlike him, had been in the room when it happened, had later said; rattling the very air with the collision of two powers of the Unseen. A vase - one of Nerdanel’s smaller projects - was knocked from a countertop by the thrumming and shuddering of the space in the house, shattering against the floor and startling more than one of Fëanáro’s sons. “If you truly do care for them so, they would be happy - and I would be happy - to see you act like it! But all you do is shut them out and disregard them, cooing over your Silmarils like it is they that are your children in the flesh, not your sons. And it is maddening for me to watch!”_

_The Silmarils again. The window fractured, but none noticed it. Yet._

_“How dare you?” Fëanáro snarled - yes,_ **_snarled_ ** _, his face twisting in the feral rage that the light of Valinor and the Valar had not quite fully weeded from his kin, nor from him. “How dare you presume to know my mind? How dare you presume to put labels on my behavior and lecture me as if you know me better than I know myself? How dare you act like you are my mother? You have_ **_never_ ** _been a mother to me,_ _Lind_ _ál_ _ë, and you never will be. There is but one woman whom I will call amillë in all of_ _Eä, and I will not have you trying to usurp her place._ _”_

_The fractured window shattered then, scattering cruelly glinting shards of glass all over the floor and making all except the two locked in argument jump as_ _Lind_ _ál_ _ë’s_ _ëala crackled and flared with her anger, her silver-blue eyes filling with terrible light_ _. “You shortsighted, arrogant halfwit,” she hissed, her venomous words and her acrid tone belied by the sweet, girlish smile that she aimed at_ _Fëanáro like a poison-tipped arrow_ _. “But of course, why did I waste my time, trying to make you see sense? You were always a self-centered boy,_ _Fëanáro, and you have grown into a narcissistic fool._ _Míriel would have given you a swift clout on the head to knock you down from the clouds, but I will refrain, seeing as I am not_ **your mother**. _” Her voice was as noxious, as spiteful, as larkspur, and she spun on her heel away from Fëanáro and stormed from the house, slamming the door in her wake. The entire building seemed to shudder from the force of her rage, and none of Fëanáro’s sons dared move a muscle as their father glared after the Ainu, the heat of the fury in his gaze such that the door could have burst into flames._

 _But then Fëanáro departed from the room in a flourish of his black hair and crimson robes, leaving Finw_ _ë to walk in only then and stare dumbfounded at the shattered vase, the broken window, and five of his seven grandsons, standing mute and paralyzed in the middle of it all._

Truly, a disaster of a day, one that Finwë still flinched to think about. Just as it still confused him to wonder why it was that Lindálë chose to accompany the Noldor, and consequently, Fëanáro, into the lands beyond. Did she, perhaps, feel apologetic for her harsh words to Fëanáro? But Finwë knew Lindálë, and she was not one to feel sorry unless she believed her actions were truly, genuinely wrong. Did she believe that? Or perhaps, had she done so to spite Fëanáro, on the contrary? Maybe it had naught to do with his son after all. Maybe her true motivation lay in accompanying Nelyafinwë, Kanafinwë, Turkafinwë, Morifinwë, Curufinwë, Pityafinwë, and Telufinwë. Or was it another matter entirely?

But Finwë would never know. For he had heard it from Lord Námo just a few moments prior. The Vala of the Dead had walked away, and Finwë was left there, staring at his retreating back in shock. Utter shock. The rest of the Halls surrounding him seemed to fade to monochrome, leaving only him and the cold chill humming through his veins, leaving him numb and blank. Why? For what reason . . . for what reason could she have . . . ?

Lindálë had abandoned her fana and had all but died; she had left Arda and traveled beyond the circles of the world, to rejoin Ilúvatar in the Timeless Halls. No longer would she pass into the world they dwelt in anymore; no longer would he, or Fëanáro, or any of Fëanáro’s seven sons, have dealings with her.

Gone was she, and as much as they would all deny it, she had stolen a piece from all of them.

**Author's Note:**

> nésa = sister (Q)  
> fëa = soul (Q)  
> ëala = being (Q)  
> amillë = mother (Q)


End file.
